The Little Wedding Island: the perfect holiday beach read for 2018. Jaimie Admans

of the contents over him, slam it back down on the table, and stomp out.

      The complete and utter knob. How dare he have the nerve to be so funny and sweet and really be R.C. Art all along? I actually felt sorry for him today, and there’s no way R.C. Art deserves even a second of sympathy. Seasickness is among the nicer things people probably wish on him.

      Even though I’m fuming, I creep upstairs to my room hoping not to be intercepted by Clara. I’m not sure if I can face questions from her at the moment, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I make it into the bedroom. I don’t realise I’m going to cry until the door clicks shut behind me and tears start pouring down my face without my permission.

      I liked him. I really liked him. I know it’s only been one afternoon, but there was something there, something that I’ve never felt on a date before, and it wasn’t even a date. I liked him being close to me. I wanted to spend time with him. I liked Clara mistaking us for a couple because I hoped her mistake was a sign. And then this. This is exactly the luck I have with guys. No sooner do you think you’ve found a good one, than they turn out to be a knob in disguise. Which is marginally better than some of the guys I’ve dated who have been knobs overtly, but still.

      And all right, maybe he didn’t deliberately hide the fact he writes as R.C. Art, and maybe if I’d concentrated less on his sexiness and more on his name, I would’ve seen it too, and maybe if I’d introduced myself properly…

      I don’t realise how much I wanted him to be Mr Right until I found out he wasn’t.

      I have to pull myself together. I get up and peel my skinny jeans off one millimetre at a time and yank the black top over my head. With hindsight, it seems so stupid to have attempted sexiness for him. Of all people, the one guy I’ve actually liked in a really long while is none other than the one who’s caused the biggest problems in my life lately.

      Just as I sit down on the corner of the bed and wonder how I’m going to manage to sleep tonight, and it has nothing to do with the army of dodgy ornaments looking at me, there’s a soft knock on the door. It’ll be Clara come to see why I stormed off, no doubt, and I can’t answer it because my breath is still hitching from crying and my face is all red and blotchy.

      ‘It’s me.’ Rohan’s voice filters through the door.

      I freeze.

      ‘I’m sorry. I was harsh and out of line downstairs. I shouldn’t have said any of those things.’

      I’m breathing so hard that I’m sure he’ll be able to hear it through the door. I try to concentrate on cooling myself down, deep breaths, in and out.

      ‘I know you hate me, but I’ve brought you a slice of the chocolate cake that Clara promised. It’s seriously the best chocolate cake I’ve ever had. I couldn’t let you miss out.’

      I don’t reply, even though I really want that chocolate cake.

      ‘I told her you weren’t feeling well and I’d fetch it up on my way to bed. Apparently chocolate cake is a known cure for all illnesses. Antibiotics and stuff are on their way out, soon all GPs will be prescribing Greggs.’

      It makes my face crease up with silent laughter, but I don’t know how to reply without having to answer the door and face him, and then he’ll see I’ve been crying, and he’ll know that I cared, and it’ll just be an even bigger mess than it already is.

      After a few more minutes’ silence, I hear him sigh. ‘I’ll just put it down outside your door then. Don’t leave it too long, I can already see a cockroach in the corner eying it up.’

      A laugh takes me by surprise and I slam my hand over my mouth and kick myself. He’s obviously heard. I picture his face slowly spreading into a smile.

      He taps the door once more. ‘Okay. Goodnight.’

      I listen as he unlocks his door and it creaks open, and just as I’m sure he hasn’t gone inside, there’s another gentle knock on my door.

      ‘Bonnie, I know it won’t make any difference to how much you hate me, but just so you know, they weren’t a random couple. I knew them, well, him anyway.’ He pauses and I know he’s waiting for me to say something. ‘Okay, goodnight. For real this time. Don’t leave this cake too long or I won’t be able to control myself and I’ll scoff the lot.’

      I listen as he opens the door and closes it, and this time his footsteps sound from the other side of the wall. I know he could be tricking me. Maybe he’s waiting for me to get the cake so he can jump out and catch me, but I’m sure he doesn’t care that much. I’m just another woman he’s upset, and I’m sure that someone like R.C. Art is used to upsetting women. And men. And animals. And microorganisms. If aliens exist, he probably even offends them.

      Even so, he apologised, and more importantly, he brought me cake. I tiptoe to the door and turn the key in minute movements, trying to open it without him hearing. I feel like a superspy as I inch the door open, scout around the landing to make sure he’s not hiding somewhere, grab the plate from the floor in front of me, and pull it into the room. I slam the door shut and let out a whoop of victory, completely forgetting I was trying to be silent.

      From the room next door, Rohan laughs.

      Great.

      I perch on the edge of the bed and dig the fork into the gooey layer of chocolate fudge and the softest, moistest sponge cake I’ve ever tasted. God, this stuff could end wars. And he’s brought me a really decent-sized slice too, none of these little slivers that people try to pass off as proper slices of cake.

      As I eat, I try not to listen to him on the other side of the wall. I can hear water running in his bathroom and I try not to picture him in the shower, naked. Water drops sliding down his torso, dripping off his wet hair, gliding down those solid arms… Coming out with a towel wrapped around him…

      Oh, for God’s sake, Bonnie. I force myself to remember R.C. Art’s column and his arrogance downstairs. That’s what I’ll have to think about when I want to picture him naked. That’s who he is. Not the guy he seemed today, but the guy who gives men tips on avoiding women who want to get married and who thinks it’s okay to make fun of random people’s weddings. Even if they weren’t random and he knows them.

      Even as I think it, I wonder what that means. He didn’t elaborate, so what was he trying to say? That it’s okay because he knew them? That they deserved it? Maybe he just said it because he knew it’d wind me up all night if I let it.

      I try to concentrate on the cake instead. It’s rich and thick and the chocolate fudge is possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten, and all I can think of is Rohan saying it’s probably made with bits of Clara’s chopped-up husband and it makes me laugh to myself. Then I have to give myself a severe talking-to. This is ridiculous. He isn’t funny. He’s horrible and I have to remember that. There’s no way I felt anything for him. He doesn’t believe in love and he hates weddings. He is so far away from my type that he might as well be in the Outer Hebrides.

      I finish the cake and clean my teeth, and when I get back to the bedroom, all is quiet from Rohan’s side of the wall. I get into bed and wriggle around, trying to get comfortable. As I lie there staring at the ceiling, all I can picture is him doing the same on the other side. It shouldn’t be this easy to picture a guy in bed. And it shouldn’t be this hot.

      The low volume of his TV comes on, reverberating softly through the wall, and I pull the duvet over my head, determined to ignore the noise as he flicks channels. Eventually he settles on something and I hear the canned laughter of a comedy show. I sit up and lean back against the headboard, my ears straining to figure out what it is.

      The worst part is I can almost feel him on the opposite side of the wall. Our room layouts are the same in reverse, and I just know that he’s sitting in bed too, his back against mine with a wall between us.

      After a few minutes I’m about to give up and put my own TV on when there’s a knock on the wall. ‘So, was that the best chocolate